Present Tense (A Parker & Coe, Love and Bullets Thriller Book 2) by Alana Matthews
Authors: Alana Matthews
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unvarnished. It was the most genuine I'd ever seen him, and despite all the lies and everything he'd put me through, no-nonsense Kelsey abruptly receded and I couldn't help feeling sorry for him.
We needed to stop these guys.
"Pooks! Please… Parker!"
But what could we do? We didn't exactly have the advantage here. If we tried to make a move, they'd happily cut us down without a second thought. And as you may have figured out by now, I kind of like being alive.
Ethan kept shouting and the thug holding him put a hand over his mouth as they dragged him toward the rear parking lot. I was surprised to see that they were taking him to a limousine that sat idling quietly in one of the aisles.
Had it been there the whole time? Cat Eater's rich client, wanting to see Ethan face to face?
I could understand why.
"He's right," Parker said quietly. "Once they have what they want, they will kill him."
"I know. So what can we do about it?"
"I'm not sure. If he called you Pooks one more time, I would've killed him myself."
"Shouldn't we tell the feds?"
"And what? Spend the next six hours being interrogated before they finally get their heads out of their butts? He'll be dead by then."
They had reached the limo and were pushing Ethan into the back seat as Cat Eater and his partner moved to their SUV.
"Then shouldn't we follow them?"
Parker shook his head. "They'll be ready for that. Too risky."
"We can't just let them do this."
"I know. But he's safe until he tells them what they want and they can confirm he isn't lying. And he knows he's dead meat if he caves too easily. Which gives us a little time."
"To do what?"
"To find out where they're taking him. And I think I know who can help."
"Who?"
"Who else?" Parker said. "Wilky."
PART FOUR
Here Today,
Gone Tomorrow
TWENTY-THREE
Arlin "Wilky" Wilkinson lived in a large, plantation-style mansion in a neighborhood full of them. I remembered thinking this guy has green when he'd hosted the barbecue here, and for the first time since I'd made my abrupt detour onto this new career path, I had begun to believe it might eventually pay off.
The mansion (there was no other word for it) was located in the curve of a cul de sac about ten miles north of the bowling alley. At four thirty in the morning it was as dark and inviting as a morgue at midnight—probably by design.
Parker pulled into the driveway and cut the Rover's engine. "Doesn't look like he's an early riser. We'll have to wake him up."
"Yeah, with a sledge hammer," I murmured, then immediately wondered what had gotten into me. This new Kelsey Coe was cause for concern.
Parker stifled a smile and we opened our doors and climbed out. But the moment we stepped past the hood of the rover, a motion sensor kicked in and flood lights illuminated the front of the house.
I hate when that happens.
We both hesitated, then shrugged it off and headed for the front door.
We were halfway there when a voice called out, "That's far enough, Parker," and a big brute of a man carrying an automatic weapon stepped out from the shadows at the side of the house.
I hate when that happens, too.
We both froze, then Parker relaxed and said, "What are you doing here, Mo?"
The name struck a chord—Elmo Lange—and I remembered meeting him at the barbecue. He was Wilky's in-house skip tracer, the guy who was supposed to have taken the escort job but had been forced to back out due to injury.
Like Parker, Elmo was a former Marshal's deputy and they'd known each other for years.
"Wilky's not too happy with you," Elmo said. "Considering how you and your girlfriend here sicced the feds on him. He figured you'd probably show up sooner or later and told me to keep an eye out for you."
Parker waved dismissively. "And do what? We're not here to hurt the guy. We just want to talk to him."
"I don't think he's much in the mood to talk. The feds really put him through a—"
"Where's your brace?" I asked.
He shifted
We needed to stop these guys.
"Pooks! Please… Parker!"
But what could we do? We didn't exactly have the advantage here. If we tried to make a move, they'd happily cut us down without a second thought. And as you may have figured out by now, I kind of like being alive.
Ethan kept shouting and the thug holding him put a hand over his mouth as they dragged him toward the rear parking lot. I was surprised to see that they were taking him to a limousine that sat idling quietly in one of the aisles.
Had it been there the whole time? Cat Eater's rich client, wanting to see Ethan face to face?
I could understand why.
"He's right," Parker said quietly. "Once they have what they want, they will kill him."
"I know. So what can we do about it?"
"I'm not sure. If he called you Pooks one more time, I would've killed him myself."
"Shouldn't we tell the feds?"
"And what? Spend the next six hours being interrogated before they finally get their heads out of their butts? He'll be dead by then."
They had reached the limo and were pushing Ethan into the back seat as Cat Eater and his partner moved to their SUV.
"Then shouldn't we follow them?"
Parker shook his head. "They'll be ready for that. Too risky."
"We can't just let them do this."
"I know. But he's safe until he tells them what they want and they can confirm he isn't lying. And he knows he's dead meat if he caves too easily. Which gives us a little time."
"To do what?"
"To find out where they're taking him. And I think I know who can help."
"Who?"
"Who else?" Parker said. "Wilky."
PART FOUR
Here Today,
Gone Tomorrow
TWENTY-THREE
Arlin "Wilky" Wilkinson lived in a large, plantation-style mansion in a neighborhood full of them. I remembered thinking this guy has green when he'd hosted the barbecue here, and for the first time since I'd made my abrupt detour onto this new career path, I had begun to believe it might eventually pay off.
The mansion (there was no other word for it) was located in the curve of a cul de sac about ten miles north of the bowling alley. At four thirty in the morning it was as dark and inviting as a morgue at midnight—probably by design.
Parker pulled into the driveway and cut the Rover's engine. "Doesn't look like he's an early riser. We'll have to wake him up."
"Yeah, with a sledge hammer," I murmured, then immediately wondered what had gotten into me. This new Kelsey Coe was cause for concern.
Parker stifled a smile and we opened our doors and climbed out. But the moment we stepped past the hood of the rover, a motion sensor kicked in and flood lights illuminated the front of the house.
I hate when that happens.
We both hesitated, then shrugged it off and headed for the front door.
We were halfway there when a voice called out, "That's far enough, Parker," and a big brute of a man carrying an automatic weapon stepped out from the shadows at the side of the house.
I hate when that happens, too.
We both froze, then Parker relaxed and said, "What are you doing here, Mo?"
The name struck a chord—Elmo Lange—and I remembered meeting him at the barbecue. He was Wilky's in-house skip tracer, the guy who was supposed to have taken the escort job but had been forced to back out due to injury.
Like Parker, Elmo was a former Marshal's deputy and they'd known each other for years.
"Wilky's not too happy with you," Elmo said. "Considering how you and your girlfriend here sicced the feds on him. He figured you'd probably show up sooner or later and told me to keep an eye out for you."
Parker waved dismissively. "And do what? We're not here to hurt the guy. We just want to talk to him."
"I don't think he's much in the mood to talk. The feds really put him through a—"
"Where's your brace?" I asked.
He shifted
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